


Photograph

by Khaelis



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 18:04:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14314197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khaelis/pseuds/Khaelis
Summary: A photograph cannot be enough.But sometimes, it has to be.





	Photograph

**Author's Note:**

> Someone take that keyboard away from me, I've been writing for one week straight and I can't stop!
> 
> Anyway, one more little story, I spent less than an hour on this, so it's not much!
> 
> I hope you'll like it anyway!

* * *

 

 

Donna remembered the Doctor once telling her he didn’t need to sleep as much as human did, thank his Time Lord biology and all. She believed him. And it was that belief that made her wonder why, everyday, he excused himself and disappeared into his bedroom for hours. Sometimes, she would walk by his door, when she went to bed to get sleep  _ she  _ most definitely needed. She never meant to listen, but she heard. Some days she would hear him laugh, a merry, singing laughter. Some other days, she would hear him cry, heart-wrenching sobs or quiet siffs. Most of the times, she didn’t hear anything. She didn’t know what he was up to in the privacy of his room. She would never know. She didn’t want to know. 

 

***

 

The concept of  _ everyday  _ shouldn’t have made much sense to him, especially not aboard the Tardis. But,  _ everyday _ , he made sure to count the hours. Twenty-four hours, split into morning, afternoon, evening. And  _ everyday _ , he made sure to go back to his room to sit at his desk. It was a ritual, of some sort. A ritual that had started long ago - or maybe fairly recently, he didn’t really know. A routine he refused to abandon.

 

It was almost ten already, or so the small alarm-clock on the bedside table showed him. He had never touched it ever since, scared it would break, scared he would accidentally mess with the settings, scared the softly glowing red numbers would vanish. 

 

He pulled on his desk chair, wrapped his pinstriped jacket around its back, and plopped down with a sigh, just as a low beep erupted from the alarm-clock. Ten. They had rarely, if not never, gone to bed after ten. It was time. 

 

He unlocked the secret drawer of his desk, slid it open, and reverently took the small cardboard box it contained. A light yellow box, white polka dots, a pink taffeta ribbon. That box had once held a tie, a gift she had given him for his birthday - birthday she had decided would happen on the day they had met for the first time, as he had told her, quivering voice and teary eyes, that he had been born again on that day. Thanks to her. Thank to that little woman looking back at him.

 

The photograph was torn in half - he had one half, she had the other. The colours were a bit faded, a crease gave her jaw weird shadows. It didn’t do her any justice. But when the memories were not enough, when his mind was too hesitant to properly reconstruct her face, when he was too tired to remember, this photograph was his solace. A frame of her beauty he could fill with all those things he loved. It made it easier to remember.

 

He carefully set the photograph against the foot of his lamp, and he remembered. Just for a little while, just a few snippets of their lives together, just enough to hold on to that part of his past he didn’t want to let go. He knew there would come a day, in a distant future, he would forget. But not just yet.

 

He brushed his thumb over the crease and nestled his head in the crook of his elbow.

 

“Goodnight, Rose,” he murmured as he closed his eyes.

 

***

 

It was almost ten when she flicked the lights off in her bathroom and went to her bed. She slipped under the cold sheets, but not before she opened the drawer of her bedside table and took out a worn wallet. There wasn’t much in that wallet. Just a photograph, torn in half - she had one half, he had the other. The colours had faded a little, the tear cut part of his neck and a bit of his ear, a crease added some relief to his hair. It didn’t do him much justice, she thought. But when he brain refused to properly recreate his face, when the few things she could recollect looked like a giant puzzle missing all the important pieces, when she felt the memories fade away, this photograph was her comfort. A rough sketch of who that man was she could draw over to picture the man she loved. It made it easier to remember.

 

She carefully set the photograph against the foot of her lamp, and she remembered. Just for a little while, just to go over what had made their life beautiful, just enough to hold on to that part of her past had been the best few years of her life.  She knew there would come a day when her human brain would forget. But not just yet.

 

She kissed a fingertip, brushed it against the side of his face, and snuggled deeper into her pillow.

 

“‘Night, Doctor,” she murmured as she closed her eyes.

 

***

 

It was almost ten. His bed had never felt so warm than in that moment.  _ Their  _ bed. He wrapped his arms around her, tight, reassuring, and he pressed a kiss on her forehead, soft, relieved. She clung to his tee-shirt and brushed her lips in the crook of his neck.

  
  


“‘Night, Doctor,” she murmured against his skin as she closed her eyes.

“Goodnight, Rose,” was his answer, a murmur, before he closed his eyes.

  
  


In a corner of their bedroom, the dimension cannon was abandoned.

Against the foot of the lamp, beside the alarm-clock, there was a photograph, vamped with thick tape, covered in creases, its once bright colours faded.

 

***

 

Donna never heard a sob again. Just merry laughter.

 

* * *

 


End file.
